


Liaison

by rainer76



Category: Fringe
Genre: AU, Mind Control, Multi, Rimming, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:19:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate World - doesn't entirely make sense plot-wise - but like Fringe, just go with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liaison

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monanotlisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monanotlisa/gifts).



She falls to the other side with a bullet wound to the skull.

Three months earlier Lincoln might have gaped, but the inclination’s been beaten out of him with a change in location. He catches her before she hits the ground. One side of her face is a mask of blood. It’s clotted in blond hair, streaked through like a bad dye-job. His voice is calm, even as he hits the comm. “Med evac! Now!”

 _Safe_ , he thinks, _you’re safe here,_ hands pressed to the sickening concave of her skull, to the blood leaking between his fingertips. Out loud, Lincoln says. “Don’t you dare die.”

She wakes up brain damaged, the neat partition of memories, timelines, shattered like spider-web glass. Olivia wakes up _angry,_ and the walls quake, shiver around her, the lights dim.

In the month it takes to recover, she sets fire to three separate wards.

Lincoln sits at her treatments when he can. She was shot twice, one bullet that shattered the collarbone, a through and through, the evidence left behind in the other world. The other wound should have been devastating, smaller and finer, rattling around in her brainpan before the medical team removed it. Olivia heals faster than expected, syntax and speech, motor control, spatial reasoning returning at fantastical speed.

“I know you,” she says one fine morning, and Lincoln smiles at her, leans forward in his seat until his elbows are braced against his knees. There’s a shadow on his jaw-line. Between Olivia and Fringe, Lincoln hasn’t slept in days.

“We shared a cup of coffee once.”

“The Night Owl.”

“Caffeine,” he murmurs, wishfully.

Her eyes track across his face, chin, shoulders, hands. Her fingers lie on the white sheets of her hospital bed, clenched tight. “I’ve lost something. I need to get out of here. I need to _leave_.”

“If you tell me my name, I’ll sign the papers myself.”

The monitor fluctuates; her eyes narrow dangerously. Lincoln stares back with one eyebrow raised.

“You’re my partner,” she says evenly. There’s a strange sensation, a moment where the room seems too bright, displacement like when Lincoln first arrived here. Otherness, he’d call it, except its crawling through his skull. “You’re Lincoln,” and she seems to relax, her fingers going loose, eyelashes fluttering with exhaustion. “You’re Lincoln, and you’re safe. Now get me out of here.”

He pulls the blanket up slowly. He has no idea what went down on the other side. There’s been no contact since the bridge was dismantled. Olivia’s memories are scrambled. “Half a name doesn’t count,” he says softly, but Olivia’s already fallen asleep.

***

“You made me chicken soup,” she says three days later.

She has her colour back, the fine tremor in her limbs evening out. Freakish, Lincoln has heard whispered in the corridors, among the surgical staff and orderlies, until the chief surgeon takes all the credit for her recovery and shoos them away. “What’s a ten letter word for conflict?” He has the tablet on his knees, it’s been his constant companion since waiting at the ward, no New York Times crossword in newspaper format, no pens for that matter either.

“Resistance,” Olivia answers instantly. “I need to find Peter.”

“Oh, so you _do_ remember him?”

“And you too. Chicken-soup. Man-eating fungus. And the times you stayed up all night to be with me.”

He looks at her quizzically, at their surroundings, the whitewashed walls and the smell of ammonia and bleach, at the seat that’s moulded itself to Lincoln’s shape these past few weeks. “Well, that hasn’t changed much.”

She squeezes his hand once, her smile fragile. He thinks, tiredly, there are no real replicas for the people we fall in love with.

“Do you know what happened to you?”

 

***

They find Peter _not_ where Olivia last left him, but in a bunker in the heart of Boston twenty-four years in the future, where crossing over apparently means scaling forward in time, too. War, or rather subterfuge, Lincoln notes, suits Peter well.

Oddly enough, every damn person in the resistance has a hat: beanies, fedoras, porkie-pie hats and akubras, sweeping brims or baseball caps. Peter laughs when he sees Olivia, pulls her in, crushes her against a wall, thigh between her legs and his cheeks wide with a contagious grin. Olivia tips his fedora to a jaunty angle, kisses him, her actions burning slow, and whispers. “What’s with the fashion statement?”

“It beats wearing Walter’s aluminium tin-hats, which he made us do, by the way, for the first two weeks.”

Every single hat is lined with silver, pressed against the inside felt.

Olivia nuzzles him, her voice whisper soft. “He did the same thing at Massive Dynamic once, to stop them from reading his mind.”

“Same principle, different material.”

Lincoln shifts his feet, struck dumb. “Um, you don’t seem surprised to see us.” Discourses on hat fashion aside, Peter’s lack of reaction is jarring, because shot in the head, love of his life, and where’s the damn tears, the proclamations of undying love?

“Took you long enough.” Peter doesn’t let go of Olivia though, his eyes barely stray from her side when he leans forward to shake Lincoln’s hand. “Welcome to the resistance.” The handshake is firm; there are calluses and smouldering burns on the inside of his palm, gun oil under his nails, and he’s known all along Olivia could heal. Lincoln stares at their clasped hands, when he looks up, Peter is watching him, the smile smaller, satisfied. “It’s good to see you.”

 

***

Liaison, Broyles calls him, and the nickname sticks. Phillip’s the only one ravaged by time, who made his journey the long, hard, haul. It’s written in the lines on his face, seen in the stiffness of his right knee. Lincoln finds himself staring, looking at him sideways, and wonders how weird it must be, to be faced with a team that hasn't aged.  

The Bridge is gone, as soon as Walter realised that’s what Bell wanted all along they resorted to other methods to communicate. Go-to-guy, Peter calls him, and it should be odd that their supplies, equipment, _allies_ , come from another world twenty odd years in the past. They are co-ordinating a war between past and present, between _here_ and _there_.  Walternate’s side willing to help if the end result is the reformation of the Bridge, the continued healing of his world.

Olivia can leap from side to side, forward and back, crossing over with ease, her powers expanding, so long as her personal compass is in existence, she can always find Peter, homing in on Bishop like he’s a natural extension of herself. Lincoln’s accustomed to the dizzying rush, to the clasp of Olivia’s hand holding his own, before the world smudges and reforms. Liaison they call him, and he is, co-ordinating with the other side, spending time in both places. Lincoln already has inroads, they trust him implicitly, and like Peter, Olivia can always find him.

Time is fluid, its been interfered with, and it’s Olivia who decided they should take the fight to the source, rather than deal with the ripples that trickle down to the past…to what should have been their present….in 2012. Instead, they make their stand and _fight,_ in 2036.

 

***

The first time they have sex it’s after the war is over, and it feels like a drunken Cirque du Solei act without the natural grace.

Olivia’s spine is a supple curve; hair gathered over one shoulder. The flare of her hips, the flex of thigh, unnatural silence ringing like a church until Lincoln feels he’s fucking her someplace holy. Revered. “You’re breaking me,” he gasps.

When she looks over her shoulder, Olivia’s eyes are half-lidded. “You’ll survive.”

(he does, he shares that in common with them both)

She’s riding him slow, as if she has all the time in the world. The second Lincoln tried to hasten her pace Olivia had stopped and pulled off entirely, padded across the room to where Peter was watching, leaning against the doorjamb with his ankles crossed. She’d kissed him open-mouthed, bare-ass naked, until Lincoln fisted his hands in the sheet, tried to keep the whine hidden, trapped low in the back of his throat. Aching and exposed, cock heavy on his stomach.

Sex is heady in the room, her aroma and his own mixed together, the heavy lidded regard of Peter tracking across his skin as he sent her back. And Lincoln’s not an idiot, message received. Don’t rush.

They’re creepy, and they’re not, because Lincoln knew them _before_ all of this. He can tell them apart even now, when their regard is twined together and shined upon him, bright and destructive as a laser beam. He knows the heat of Olivia’s love, the quiet joy she partakes, the stroke of her hand, the push of her tongue. He can recognise Peter’s playfulness, a surge of quicksilver lust. More selfish than her, Bishop’s bent on protecting what’s his and not giving a damn about the rest.

Affection, want, need, liaison.

Lincoln’s scorched, lungs tight as if the oxygen’s been burnt from the room. He pushes into her, ponderous, watches her arch, the string of vertebrae vulnerable under his hand. The sickle curve of a pale breast; the sweat on her lower lip, she’s flush to his groin, sending all of that fierce joy toward him. Enveloped in it, it's too much. Lincoln spreads her knees wide with his own. Slow, because that’s how she likes it. “I love you,” he says.

He still prefers words, finds them necessary. They’ve fought their battles from past to present, shattered timelines and personal memory. Peace is no-man’s-land, and this is his first, _last,_ opportunity to say it. Their three-way partnership is the only thing solid beneath him. Take away his war, and Lincoln can only see comradeship slip away. Where he’ll be left behind, discarded.

Lincoln speeds up, lets action fill his mind, a sharp, stuttering rhythm. He speeds up until he’s buried to the hilt, pushing through a honeyed trap, until he’s quiet and still, balls tight to his body. His cock twitches but he can’t withdraw, nor thrust forward. Sweat trickles between his shoulder blades. He raises his head accusingly.

“Sssh,” Olivia says. “We heard.”

Peter’s hand is warmer, broader on his spine, the mattress dips with the weight of a third person. There’s a sense of _expectation,_ a question mark without verbal weight. Lincoln furrows his brow, immobile, yet his vocal chords haven’t been silenced. “You have to do better than that. It’s only polite to _ask_.”

“Up for a threesome?” Peter drawls easily.

Lincoln can’t read Olivia’s eyes. Her face is rosy, flush with exertion, strands of hair on her forehead, a smile tugging at her lips. Lincoln draws a breath.  “Are you talking about sex or something else?”

“Did you want to draw up legal documentation?”

“I like to know the fine-print.”

“Will you stay?” Olivia clarifies.

She tightens around him, _clenches_ , and Lincoln says crossly (fine, breathlessly) “That’s not playing fair.”

He’s not sure how he’s expected to think in the current circumstances.

Peter’s thumb rubs across his spine. “We’d like you to stay.”

 _Where_ he wants to know, or more appropriately, _when_ , but Lincoln guesses it doesn't matter in the end. He turns his head, surprised he’s allowed that much free reign, and says evenly. “I don’t _like_ observers.”

Peter grins. “Good. I hate sitting still.”

The first time they have sex, after the war, Lincoln’s pinioned to the bed, held immobile with invisible hands. He's buried balls deep inside Olivia’s body and spread out for Peter’s tongue. It’s pleasure so dark, silken, it makes Lincoln sob, until he’s slick and open, gasping with it.  It's bristles against his ass cheeks and a tongue stabbing deep. He comes caught between the two of them, while Olivia rolls her hips, steals his breath, and let’s every sensation Lincoln is feeling feed out, flow between them.

**Author's Note:**

> Etta, obviously, doesn't exist in this AU. I'd apologise for that, but I was more interested in writing Lincoln. Written as a thank you to Mona - who gave me Walter, Astrid gen, post 4:21, and pretty much won my undying gratitude.
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/400541


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